


What Nobody Tells You

by flipflop_diva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/F, HP: EWE, Post-Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:03:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3342956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/pseuds/flipflop_diva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after the war, Hermione Granger feels like she should be happy with what her life has become. But as it turns out, there's only one other person who really understands. Set post-Deathly Hallows. Definitely not epilogue compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Nobody Tells You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/gifts).



> Merit, I am not sure this is at all the direction you wanted this to go, but it's the direction it went. I did try to incorporate your prompt as best I could. I hope you enjoy! Happy Galentine's Day!

As she had done every Thursday night for almost as long as she could recall, Hermione Granger made her way down a crowded London street, her face mostly obscured by the scarf she was wearing and her hair piled up and hidden under the hood of her cloak. She looked like any other Muggle female scurrying home from work, and she liked it that way.

Halfway down the street, she stopped in front of a plain wooden door that didn’t attract much attention against the flashy neon signs and colorful lights of the places next door and opened it up, slipping inside to find an equally plain interior that was mostly empty except for the man behind the bar that looked like it had seen much better years.

She waved her greeted, then marched off toward her usual spot.

She found exactly what — _who_ — she was waiting for in the very back corner, and as she also did every Thursday, she sank into the booth without saying a word.

“You’re late.”

Dark eyes gleamed at her through the musky lighting as a pale hand lifted a glass of amber liquid to ruby red lips that smirked even as they drank.

“Long day. Hard day,” Hermione answered, reaching for the matching glass that had been sitting on the table right in front of her when she sat down. She lifted it up and took a long gulp, shuddering as the liquid burned its way down her throat, setting her chest on fire. 

“It always is with you.” 

Hermione lifted her eyes to meet Pansy’s. The other woman’s voice had an edge to it, but her eyes were surprisingly full of understanding. Hermione didn’t bother to answer, just nodded and drained the rest of her glass. Pansy lifted her hand to order them another round.

•••

Hermione wouldn’t say her Thursday night rituals were a deep dark secret, nor even a secret, although no one at all knew about them, but that was more because they never asked and she never offered. And besides, why did anyone else need to know anyway?

She spent the rest of her other days and hours of the week pretending that everything was fine and she was fine and life was dandy. And why shouldn’t it be? She had the job at the Ministry that she had always wanted. She had her own little flat that she could decorate as she liked. She had good friends who always wanted to see her or who invited her over. 

And she loved seeing them, she did. Luna, who had discovered three new species of magical creatures in the five years since they had graduated Hogwarts and was always off on some crazy adventure or another. Ginny, who was a star of the Quidditch circuits. Harry and Ron, who had become a sort of auror dream team and whose heroics were often discussed in the halls of the Ministry at least ten times an hour. 

Everyone was happy. Everyone was good. 

She was happy, too. She was good, too.

Sort of.

Sometimes.

Maybe.

Well, at least she wanted to be.

•••

The silence between them stretched long and comfortable, like a familiar pair of jeans being slipped on after a long day in heels and a skirt. It wasn’t until the barkeep was dropping off their fourth glass of the night that Pansy bothered to speak again.

“You want to talk about it?” She hummed slightly as she took a sip of her own drink.

“Not really,” Hermione said. 

“The usual then?”

“Pretty much.”

“You know what I say?” Pansy stopped drinking and held up her glass, like she was about to make a toast.

“Hmmm?”

Pansy smirked. “I say fuck ‘em,” and she clinked Hermione’s glass with her own, a little too hard, laughing almost melodically as liquid splashed over the edge and down both of their hands.

•••

It hadn’t always been Thursday nights. In their eighth year at Hogwarts — the year Hermione wouldn’t have dared miss and the year Pansy was forced to attend by demanding parents who gave her no choice — it was Saturday nights. And Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Fridays.

It also wasn’t back corners in Muggle bars where no one would ever think to look for them. Then it was empty classrooms and deserted hallways and an alcove behind one of the statues on the fourth floor that no one ever thought to check. 

It had started innocently enough. Hermione needed a place to go to not be around people. Pansy apparently needed the same thing. Neither one wanted to be the first to yield, so instead they tolerated each other’s presence, and for a few hours a week, kept it civil.

But civil silences progressed to offhand chatter, which late one November night led to secret confessions, and then soon after that, it became much more. Rough kisses and rougher touches and orgasms so intense Hermione could _finally_ stop thinking — about the sea of dead faces and the endless stream of grief and the crazed look in Bellatrix Lestrange’s eyes as she carved hateful words into Hermione’s skin that were still there to this day, despite every spell and counter-spell she tried.

For Pansy, it was a new start. She had lost things, too, during the war. Her pride, her boyfriend, some of her friends. 

Together, they helped each other heal. And they walked away after their last day at school not expecting a thing. Until Pansy had sent Hermione an owl post some six months later.

All it had was a time, a date and a place.

It was all Hermione had needed.

•••

The world had a slight tilt to it. Her head felt a bit dreamy, like she was channeling Luna. Hermione put down her empty glass — her fifth — and looked intently at Pansy.

The other woman looked older in the dim lighting of the bar. Small creases between her eyes, dark circles under them. Hermione imagined she looked like that, too. 

She glanced down, at the faint white lines still visible on her arm. She had once thought the horrors of war would end when Voldemort died. Sometimes it felt like they had for everyone but her.

A soft touch on her hand drew her attention back to the woman in front of her.

“Want to get out of here?” Pansy said.

Hermione didn’t have to be asked twice. She shrugged her coat back on as Pansy paid the tab.

They headed out of the bar together, blending back in with the Muggles outside. As they walked, Pansy reached out and took Hermione’s hand, gave it a soft squeeze.

Hermione let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. 

She wasn’t really okay — these Thursday night meetings were proof of that — but sometimes, for a moment, with Pansy next to her and a night of touching and embracing ahead of her, she felt like maybe she could be.


End file.
